the little steps to healing
by strawberriez8800
Summary: Thomas/Jimmy - Jimmy finds an injured stray puppy and names it Thomas.
1. Chapter 1

_Note: This is part 1 of 2 (pt. 2 will be up soon), and I hope you enjoy!_

* * *

Thunder rolls overhead like a solid drumbeat of war, reminding Jimmy of darker days in the trenches. The air is thick with the expectation of rain, and he glances up, eyes catching the harsh line of lightning cracking across the sky in the distance. As if on cue, rain begins to pour in curtains, splashing the landscape with monochrome paint, washing away the tainted memories the thunder has brought on.

"Bloody hell," Alfred curses beside him, adjusting his cap. "Of all days, must it rain on me day off?"

"S'not so bad," Jimmy says and flips up his coat collar to fend off the worst of the rain. He tucks _The Call of the Wild_ safely into his coat, a shudder rippling through him when the wind sails across the land. He steps over a growing puddle, only to land on a thick slab of mud. His recently polished shoe sinks a few inches, and he scowls at the thought of having to clean it again so soon.

"Do you like the rain, Jimmy?" Ivy asks from his side, her words somewhat stifled by the steady downpour.

"Not particularly," he says. "But I see no point in grumbling about it, seeing it's something we have no control over." Jimmy flashes a genial smile at Ivy, who looks down at her hands shyly. Something behind Ivy catches his eye, and he stares past her at a small, brown shape huddled beside a stack of dirty wooden crates on the side of the road. His footsteps slow a stop, rubber soles squeaking against the rain-slicked pavement, and he squints at the curious figure.

"You go on ahead," he says to the others, waving them off. "I'll catch up."

"What's wrong?" Ivy says, concerned, stepping towards Jimmy.

"Nothing. Just go, I'll be right behind you." He forces out a smile, glancing at the crates to make sure the creature is still there.

"C'mon, Ivy. We're going to catch a cold if we stay out here any longer," Alfred urges. "The house is not far from here anyhow."

After several fruitless protests, Ivy leaves with Alfred and Jimmy watches them go until he is certain they are a safe distance away. He runs towards the figure and crouches down, completely forgetting about keeping his coat away from the filth. _It's a puppy_, Jimmy realises, eyes widening. He flinches and almost falls back on his bum when the young canine lets out a thin, pitiful whine, squirming feebly against the ground. Its matted fur, covered in grime and sludge, glistened in the warm light from a nearby lamp.

Carefully, Jimmy gathers the puppy into his arms. Another whimper vibrates from its throat and it nuzzles closer into Jimmy's coat. Jimmy smiles a little, scans the spot on the ground where the dog has just been, and gasps at the sight of red smearing across the surface, diluted with rainwater.

Tentative, Jimmy holds up the creature and inspects for any injuries, blinking away the water in his eyes, and notices a nasty gash running down the side of his left hind leg. Frowning, he probes around for further signs of wounds, and sees another cut on its muzzle, stained with days worth of soil and bacteria.

"Good Lord, what happened to you?" Jimmy whispers, cradling it close to his chest almost protectively. Suddenly, he feels ridiculous for pampering an injured puppy to such a degree. He stares down at it, wondering what to do. Judging by its state, it's probably a stray puppy that has been wondering in the streets for a while. Leaving it here may lead to its death, and Jimmy isn't sure if he could ever bring himself to do such a thing. On the other hand, if he brought it back to the house, Carson would be absolutely livid if he ever discovered it, and Jimmy wouldn't put it past him to give a severe scolding about secretly keeping a pet.

_Sod it, I'll bring him back with me and deal with Carson later, _he thinks, and stops short when he realises he just referred to the dog as a 'him'. Jimmy peers between the puppy's legs to check for its gender, and grins when he is right after all.

The puppy nestles closer, his brown eyes slipping shut, falling asleep.

Jimmy's expression softens. "There's a good boy."

_-x-_

Thomas closes his eyes and listens to the rain pattering against the weather-worn roof, which oddly mirrors the rhythmic beat of the Vickers machine gun, raining fatal bullets on the Germans who were foolish enough to stand in the line of fire. Thomas imagines being one of those unfortunate soldiers, a spray of ammunition tearing into him like he's nothing more than a piece of parchment.

His injured hand flexes on his side as if in rejection of the very thought, his glove stretching around the seams like second skin. Thomas takes a long drag of cigarette, feeling the heat rush down his throat and blossom in chest as he holds the smoke in, and suddenly he finds himself thinking of O'Brien who would often join him in these brief sessions of refuge, back when it was just them against the world before everything fell apart. It feels like a lifetime ago.

Thomas wonders if it's wrong to miss her, after everything she put him through. Then again, he thinks it might even be a good thing, somehow, because he feels like a different person now—a _better _person because of what came to be. Perhaps he has O'Brien to thank after all.

His attention perks up at a rustling sound nearby. He glances at the source of the noise, only to see Jimmy, soaked to the bone, creeping through the bushes. Thomas opens his mouth, about to call out to him when he sees Jimmy carrying something in his arms. He raises an eyebrow when Jimmy quickly slips through the door without a word to anybody. Compelled by the familiar sense of curiosity that often plagues him where Jimmy is concerned, Thomas tosses his cigarette and follows him.

Once inside, Thomas hears Jimmy sprint upto the men's quarters, and he hesitates at the foot of the stairs, fingers clenching and unclenching at his sides, because even almost a year and a half later, Thomas still steers clear of Jimmy's room as much as possible; some incidents are better left buried.

Ignoring the cautions whispered by his conscience, Thomas starts up the stairs softly and approaches Jimmy's closed door. He falters outside, pulse racing with trepidation, his hand raised to knock. He grits his teeth, pulls his hand back and turns on his heels, willing himself to just _walk away, _but at that moment Jimmy swings the door open.

Thomas whirls around, his heart at his throat, his cheeks burning. He fumbles vainly for an excuse.

"Mr. Barrow," Jimmy says with an apologetic smile, pulling the door shut behind him with a decisive click. Thomas's mouth dries at the sight of Jimmy's flushed complexion, and the rainwater trapped in his thick, golden lashes, making them shimmer more than usual. "I seem to have left something in the kitchen. I was going to get them…"

"Right, I see." _Think of something else to say, for God's sake. _"How was your day at Ripon?" His eyes linger on Jimmy's pink lips before he averts his gaze. He ought to stop doing that if he wants to keep their delicate friendship, but old habits die hard.

Thomas's eyes trace the movement of Jimmy's fingers as they comb through his endearingly tousled hair that is usually so impeccable, his chest contracting ever so lightly. A fat drop of water slides off a light strand and splatters onto the floorboard, a barely audible '_pop' _terminating its existence.

"It was good," Jimmy says, and Thomas tries not to feel too disappointed at the generic answer. There's a brief, static pause in the air, both of them waiting for the other to speak, and Jimmy's blue-grey eyes suddenly brighten, catching Thomas by surprise. Jimmy grins up at him. "I got something for you, actually. Wait a second." Jimmy returns to his room, only to reappear almost immediately. He holds out a copy of _The Call of the Wild_, curled around the corners from the dampness. "Here, I thought you might like it."

Thomas gazes down at the novel, and he feels a smile spreading across his face as he accepts the unexpected gift, their fingers brushing for a fraction of a second. "Thanks, Jimmy." He runs his ungloved fingers over the smooth exterior of the book, a newer, dearer version of the one sitting in his shelf at this very moment. "Though you really didn't have to do this."

Jimmy flushes. "No—I mean—I just thought since we're friends now…you don't mind, do you, Mr. Barrow?"

Thomas raises his eyebrows, astonished that he would even assume Thomas would_ mind_. Of course he wouldn't. Anything from Jimmy, Thomas accepts with all the gratitude in the world, because if Thomas has learnt anything in the recent months, it's to never take anything for granted—

A peculiar whining growl resonates from Jimmy's room, muffled by the closed door. Jimmy balks, and proceeds down the hallway towards the stairs, pulling Thomas along by the arm.

"What was that?" Thomas asks, trying his best to ignore Jimmy's firm grasp on his forearm, the heat of his touch searing through the layers of clothing, hot and electric.

"Nothing," Jimmy mutters.

They stop at the bottom of the stairs, neither of them making a sound. Thomas watches Jimmy carefully, waiting for some sort of sign—for _something_, and Jimmy glances up the stairs again, a crease between his brows. Jimmy is still holding Thomas's arm, but he doesn't seem to realise it.

"Jimmy, if there's anything I can do to help—" The words tumble out of Thomas's mouth before he clamps it shut, afraid that he might've said too much, or given the wrong impression.

There's a loud crash in the hallway, followed by a string of clumsy bumps as Alfred and Ivy stumble in, drenched and shivering.

"Jimmy?" Alfred says. "You're a quick one, aren't you? We thought you might've fallen into a ditch somewhere, with this wretched weather…" His voice trails off as his gaze settles on Jimmy's grip on Thomas's limb.

Jimmy wrenches his hand away and curls it into a fist, his discomfort radiating in contagious waves. Without a word, he stomps into the kitchen, leaving Thomas at the stairs and Ivy and Alfred gawking after him with confusion.

"Is something the matter with him?" Ivy asks.

Thomas remains silent, gazing down at his arm; the memory of Jimmy's touch lingers like a ghost, haunting, poignant.

Beyond the walls of Downton, the storm rages on.

_-x-_

"What's your name?" Jimmy murmurs, feeling a little silly for talking to an animal, watching the puppy gnaw at a raw lamb rib almost as big as him—something Jimmy nicked from the kitchen when the maids weren't looking.

Jimmy has just cleaned and bandaged the wound on the puppy's leg, his brief medical experience acquired during the war guiding his actions for the first time in years. The cut on his muzzle, sterilised with mild alcohol, somehow reminds Jimmy of Thomas, bloody and beaten and lying under the bridge all those months ago. The incident is still so brutally vivid in his mind it may just as well have been yesterday.

He shakes his head, trying to snap out of it, knowing it's an unpleasant road to go down, no matter how familiar. He observes the puppy instead, wondering if Thomas is reading his new book this very moment. Before he knows it, he catches himself grinning like a fool, and he arranges his face into a more dignified expression despite the absence of any witness besides the dog.

"I can't keep calling you The Dog all the time," Jimmy says. "Perhaps Thomas would have some ideas—" Jimmy stops short when the creature's ears twitch at Thomas's name "—wait, do you like the name _Thomas_?"

To anybody else, this one-sided conversation probably appears absurd, but Jimmy is staring at dog—Thomas?—intently, trying to discern its cryptic expression, half-expecting little Thomas to start speaking or something.

"Thomas." The syllables roll off his tongue experimentally. Little Thomas perks up once again, wagging its short, stubby tail at Jimmy, and he can't help but laugh. "Okay, Thomas it is."


	2. Chapter 2

_Note: So there's actually 3 parts to this..ahah so there'll be another (last) one up soon :) Hope you guys like this._

* * *

Thomas lies in bed, awake and alert, the sense of solitude so acute it's as if he is the only one left in the world.

The heavy rain has saturated the air with moisture, turning it so dense there may as well be liquid molecules suspended midair. Beads of sweat trickle down Thomas's neck and soak into the pillow beneath, the puddle of dampness growing by the minute. He lies on his back, shifting a little, his cotton shirt clinging against his skin, stubborn and irritating.

Thomas can't sleep, doesn't _want _to sleep, because he knows the kind of reveries that await; it's a cruel trick his subconscious enjoys playing on him, taking advantage of the only time in the day Thomas is defenseless. It's a bet that he gambles with himself every night, seeing if he can get through the night without any dreams of Jimmy, but the odds are always against him.

Thomas's mind goes blank when he hears a knock on his door. He ignores it because it's past midnight, for Heaven's sake—yet there it is again, subdued but persistent.

He sighs, resting a forearm over his eyes. "Who's there?" He says, his voice louder than anticipated in the silence of the night. He sits up, runs a hand through his hair, the mattress dipping beneath his weight with a soft creak.

The door opens a crack, and someone peers in, cloaked in semi-darkness; Thomas would recognise that outline anywhere, anytime in less than a heartbeat.

"Mr. Barrow?"

Thomas freezes, holding his breath, wondering if this is just the prelude of one of his fitful dreams; it's becoming harder and harder to tell nowadays, the boundaries starting to blur.

He gets out of bed, fixes his hair a little—because even after everything, vanity is still one of his weaknesses.

He approaches the door, pulls it open for Jimmy. The faint light from the corridor spreads through the widening gap, bouncing off locks of disheveled blond hair, a custom made halo. "Jimmy, what is it?" He says, hoping Jimmy doesn't notice the falter in his voice.

Jimmy bites his lip, brows furrowed. He shifts his weight from one foot to another, hesitation written all over his face. Thomas's mutilated fingers twitch on his side, yearning to caress the velvet smooth plane of Jimmy's cheekbones.

"There's something I need your help with, actually…." Jimmy says, looking over his shoulder at his room.

Thomas's breath hitches at those words—those potential implications of those damned—"At this hour?" He says quickly, cutting off the traitorous thoughts that teeter too close to the edge. _This has to be a dream. It can't be real—won't ever be._

"_No_, it's not what you think, God—_no_. I mean there's—" Jimmy exhales a long, weary breath. "There's a puppy in my room and it won't stop crying." The words come out in rush, and Jimmy flushes a deep red, sheepish.

Thomas stares at Jimmy, unblinking, his mind going over Jimmy's sentence again and again like a broken record. "There's a puppy in your room," Thomas deadpans, his voice betraying none of the turmoil and confusion within him.

Jimmy gives a brisk nod. Without another word, he turns on his heels, and Thomas follows suit.

_-x-_

Jimmy returns to his room, hears Thomas's nimble footsteps behind him, hoping he hasn't made a mistake. Thomas is the only one who can—and will—help, but Jimmy is still rather uncertain about exposing his new-found pet, even to Thomas.

Once inside, Jimmy sees Little Thomas—Thomas Junior?—curled up on the edge of Jimmy's bed, his tiny head buried beneath a pillow. It lets out a low, morose whine, body quivering ever so lightly. Jimmy's heart clenches at the sight; he wishes there was something he could do to ease the creature's pain, whatever the cause.

"He's been like this for almost an hour," Jimmy says. "I can't seem to stop it."

Thomas crouches down in front of the puppy, a tentative hand reaching out for the creature. Jimmy watches Thomas in growing bewilderment as his expression softens with wholehearted compassion; it's something Jimmy doesn't see often. Thomas touches the dog with scarred fingers—something else that Jimmy rarely sees—and begins stroking with a feather-light touch.

"What's his name?" Thomas murmurs, pale grey eyes never leaving the creature.

It takes Jimmy a moment before he realises Thomas is talking to _him, _and he reddens, lamenting his unwise decision to name a dog after the under-butler. "Uh, Thomas. His name is Thomas. I call him Thomas Junior because I thought it may get confusing. We can change his name if it upsets you." Jimmy promptly shuts his mouth before he can make a greater fool out of himself—because there's something about Thomas that always makes Jimmy feel a little silly, like he's just a daft schoolboy with little experience in life.

Thomas turns to look at Jimmy, an amused smile gracing his refined features, and if Jimmy looks hard enough, he can see a splash of pink adorning Thomas's cheeks. "An odd choice, I'd give you that. But no, it doesn't upset me, Jimmy."

"Good, that's good. I'm glad." _Oh, just shut _up _before he thinks you're a complete dolt._

Thomas gathers the whimpering creature into his hands with such care that Mr. Carson may take with a silver chalice. "I think he misses his mother." He lifts his gaze to Jimmy, grey meeting blue, the sudden eye-contact catching Jimmy off guard.

"His mother? But I found him abandoned on the streets earlier," Jimmy says, scrunching up his face. "Anything we can do before he wakes the whole bloody house?"

Thomas nods. He stands up, Thomas Jr. cradled in his arms, and passes him to Jimmy. "I'll be back in a minute. Stay put, and try not to disturb him," Thomas says, the note of authority in his voice reminding Jimmy of the gap in their respective ranks. Jimmy looks at Thomas when he thinks he doesn't notice, and realises despite the methodical tone of his words, his expression is gentle, coaxing. _It's a nice look on him, _Jimmy decides.

He snaps out of his disconcerting stupor when Thomas leaves the room. He looks down at Thomas Jr. in his arms, feeling as if a leaden weight has been lifted off his chest since he confided to Thomas; then again, there is still the predicament of keeping Thomas Jr. out of Carson's detection.

Thomas reappears, a thick bundle of towel in one hand, a pocket watch in another, the brass surface catching the faint light, gleaming with an almost ethereal quality.

"A pocket watch?" Jimmy says.

Thomas bends down and starts creating a nest with the towel, sticks the old pocket watch within the folds. "The ticking of a clock mimics the sound of his mother's heartbeat. A pocket watch is the closest I've got to something like it, so this will have to do," Thomas answers, and casts a glance at Jimmy over his shoulder. "Jimmy?"

"Oh, yes," Jimmy says, feeling rather embarrassed for some reason. Perhaps it's the abrupt realisation of just how different they are from each other; Thomas is always going to be the knowledgeable, well-read one, while Jimmy is something more—_shallow _and lackluster. Sometimes, Jimmy wonders what Thomas ever sees in him at all.

Jimmy crouches over and places Thomas Jr. into the make-shift crib. The puppy snuggles into the expanse of the towel, and it almost seems like a miracle when his whines grow quieter by the minute, eventually coming to a stop. Jimmy watches with a slack jaw as Thomas Junior falls into a peaceful slumber, cuddled against the antique watch.

"That is incredible," Jimmy finds himself saying. "_You _are incredible, Mr. Barrow. If it weren't for you, I think I would've gone mad by now."

A soft chuckle escapes Thomas's throat as he straightens up. "Always glad to be of assistance," he says, a smile tugging on the corner of his smooth, pink lips. Jimmy swallows, averts his gaze and stares at the wall behind Thomas.

There's a stretch of silence in the air, and Jimmy chews on his lip, nervous for some reason. His palms are warm and sweaty, and he rubs them against his pants, feeling absurdly self-conscious. Jimmy's heart quickens at the way Thomas is staring at his mouth, and he stops chewing his lip, the flesh released from between his teeth with a wet pop. Thomas flinches at the sound, looks away quickly.

"Thank you, really," Jimmy says when Thomas makes to leave. Thomas pauses by the doorway, his features hidden in the murky shadows, a partial silhouette. "I do value our friendship so much, Mr. Barrow." Jimmy doesn't know why he said that, but there it is. Nowadays, he feels as if he doesn't even know what he's doing half of the time, especially when Thomas is around. Somehow, the thought troubles him.

"Me too, Jimmy," Thomas says, sounding strained.

"Well, goodnight then."

"Goodnight."

Jimmy closes the door, leans against the cold barrier, feeling the world has just shifted on its axis by a little. His eyelids fall shut, his breaths coming ragged and shallow. His mind flashes back to _that night_, and Jimmy can feel Thomas's mouth on his all over again, supple and fresh and _so bloody good_—probably even better against his throat, collarbone, chest—

"No!" Jimmy cries into the emptiness of the night, his body shaking in violent fits. His knees give away and he slides onto the floor, buries his hands in his face, wishing for another world, another life.


	3. Chapter 3

_Note: Part 3 of 3 :) I hope you guys have enjoyed this little fic :D_

* * *

_"Absolutely not."_

Carson's voice rings through the expanse of his office, loud and condemning, a verbal slap to Jimmy's face.

"If we just throw him out, he will _die_," Jimmy says, defiant. "Sir," he adds hastily, hoping the honorific would quell the old man's anger by a fraction.

"Does Downton Abbey look like an animal shelter to you, _James_?" Carson says, looming over Jimmy. "You will take the creature back to Ripon tomorrow morning, and find a willing family to take him in. Is that understood?"

"I can care for him myself, and I won't let him be a hassle. I promise."

Carson reddens, as if the suggestion itself is offensive, or despicable in some way. "And are we to keep paying your wages as a _footman _while you strut around with a pup in your arms?" He says, seething. "Unless you wish to be replaced, you shall do as I instructed, and _that _is final."

Jimmy grits his teeth, fists shaking at his sides. "Yes, Mr. Carson," he mutters, and makes a quick exit before he says anything he'd regret.

In the hallway, Jimmy sees Thomas idling a few metres from Carson's door, smoking as he leans against the wall. The tip of the cigarette glows orange as he inhales, a beacon amongst the dull backdrop. Thomas regards Jimmy with blank slate eyes as Jimmy strides out of the office, a quirked eyebrow the only indication of his curiosity.

"You heard it all, then?" Jimmy asks.

"From the way Carson was bellowing, it was hard not to," Thomas says, the smoke unfurling from his mouth at each spoken word. "What do you plan to do?"

Jimmy smiles, wry and humourless. "What is there to do? I don't want to lose my job, but I have no wish to give Thomas away, either." His shoulders slump in defeat. "Though it seems I have no choice in the matter. Carson's made that awfully clear."

Thomas looks away, tips the ashes off the smouldering end of the cigarette. "Leave it to me, Jimmy. I've got an idea." Thomas lifts his gaze to meet Jimmy's, a cryptic glint in his eyes.

Jimmy perks up. "Oh? What are you—"

"Don't you have work to get on with, James?" Mrs. Hughes interrupts, seeming to appear out of nowhere. After a beat, she turns to Thomas and says, albeit with a milder tone, "Thomas, might I remind you that Mr. Carson is yet to be convinced of the necessity of an under-butler, so I do wish that you prove your worth before he changes his mind." She gives them both a pointed look before proceeding down the corridor.

Jimmy stares at Thomas with an accusing frown. "She likes you more. That's unfair," he says once Mrs. Hughes is out of earshot.

The corner of Thomas's mouth twitches in amusement. "Life's unfair, Jimmy. Be sure to get accustomed to it."

_-x-_

Thomas takes a seat by Mrs. Hughes in the servant's hall, the kitchen maids bustling about bringing in food from the kitchen, settling the table for luncheon. _Finally_, he thinks, checking his pocket watch. The ticking of clocks seems to have slowed since his promotion to an under-butler, the gears of machinery suspended in mud. Perhaps it's the reduced workload that encourages his occasional indolence, creating the impression of a more languid reality, a blatant contrast to his former life as a footman—or maybe the Earth really _is _spinning slower on its axis. Thomas would never know.

Jimmy takes a seat across from Thomas, his mouth downturned, his eyebrows knitted. _He really is in a downcast mood._ "Cheer up, Jimmy," Thomas says, injecting some synthetic comfort into his words; it's difficult to be genuine without being _too _genuine around Jimmy nowadays, particularly in the company of others. "I told you I had a plan, didn't I?"

"Mr. Barrow has a plan?" Anna says, slipping into the empty chair beside Jimmy, Bates right next to her. The married couple seems to be surgically joined by the hips nowadays. "Brings back memories, doesn't it, John?" She nudges her husband with an easy smile.

"Ones I'd rather not think about," Bates replies, a stern note in his voice as he glowers at Thomas, as if the very act would somehow scare him away.

Thomas matches the glare with one of his own. Three solid seconds pass before Thomas breaks the eye-contact and rolls his eyes, a biting remark on the tip of his tongue. Then he thinks of the help Bates had given him all those years ago, and refrains himself. Bates had probably just been compelled by his ludicrous sense of integrity that vexes Thomas to no end even now, with little regard to Thomas's actual welfare, but the fact remains that _he _of all people had prevented Thomas's life from crumbling to pieces, and Thomas has been indebted to him since—even after more than one year._Bet he enjoys knowing it, bloody sanctimonious bastard._

"So what news of Junior?" Anna asks. "Have you managed to persuade Mr. Carson to let him stay?"

Thomas secretly feels glad that Jimmy never revealed the dog's actual name. It would be rather humiliating, especially in Bates's knowledge. Thomas glances at Jimmy, who looks as if about to reply, but Thomas beats him to it. "He refused and told Jimmy to dump it back in the streets of Ripon tomorrow morning," he says, watching Anna's eyes widen with dismay.

"He never…"

Thomas nods. "The pup is too young to fend for itself, so it will most likely perish in the harsh environment, maybe even trampled to death by horses ten times its size."

Thomas ignores the way Jimmy narrows his eyes at him, and continues: "It's a cruel fate for any creature, let alone a helpless dog," Thomas finishes, his eyes flickering over to Bates. _Now let your self-righteousness take over, old man._

As expected, Bates jumps right in, no doubt eager to impose the gallantry that his wife adores so much. "I'll bring the matter to his Lordship tonight. He may agree to keep Junior at the notion of Isis having a friend. She's growing old after all, and it'd do her good to have a companion."

Anna's face lights up, and she beams at her husband. "That is a wonderful idea!" She touches him on the forearm, a gesture of such pure affection that Thomas averts his eyes on instinct, his throat growing tight—from a foolish sense of envy, perhaps, at the ease of which they display their fondness.

Thomas feels Jimmy's gaze on him, meets his eyes from across the table. A look of comprehension dawns upon Jimmy's blue-grey eyes, and his face dissolves into an impressed grin. Ignoring the way his pulse jumps at the Jimmy's facial expression, Thomas gives him a subtle nod, holds a forefinger to his lips, as if to say 'just sit back and watch'.

-_x-_

"If the creature ever stirs up trouble, you shall have _me _to answer to. Is that clear?" Carson says, the reluctance so thick in his tone that Jimmy has to fight away a smile. _Thomas would kill to witness this moment._

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," Jimmy says, unable to keep the glee from his voice.

Carson heaves a sigh and waves him off. Without another word, Jimmy exits the office with such lightness in his chest that he feels like a weightless entity, floating in the heavens without a care in the world. He seeks out for Thomas, keen to relay the good news. Eventually, he finds him outside, smoking, a tranquil figure in the dusk-tinted ambiance Jimmy slows to a halt, his purpose briefly forgotten as he watches from a distance, faltering.

Thomas tips his head up and exhales, a rush of pale smoke dancing into the air before dissipating into nothingness, the epitome of an ephemeral existence. Thomas looks so at peace that Jimmy feels somewhat averse to intrude.

Jimmy shakes out of his contemplation and turns to leave, but Thomas glances in his direction at the rustling of his shoes. Jimmy cringes, stopping short, feeling the heat pooling in his cheeks at being caught out. "Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Barrow. I was just about to leave," he says, not entirely sure why he's apologising; he hasn't done anything wrong, not really.

Thomas remains quiet, and Jimmy gulps under his mute scrutiny, grateful for the partial darkness that hides his blush. "Must you?" Thomas says, his voice so quiet that Jimmy isn't sure if he's heard him right. "I could use some company."

After a moment of hesitation, Jimmy accepts Thomas's implicit request and joins him at his side, their shoulders a breath apart. Compelled by a strange whim, Jimmy moves closer so their arms touch—just scarcely, and feels Thomas freeze at the contact.

"Carson's agreed to let Thomas stay—" It's strange to speak Thomas's name without actually referring to him "—and it's all thanks to you."

"Bates would beg to differ," Thomas says and takes another drag.

Jimmy grins. "Sod him. It's you who's the clever one." He feels Thomas shift a little, as if uncomfortable at the compliment. Jimmy casts him a side glance, his eyes tracing the smooth profile of his face, admiring the perfect proportions of his nose, mouth—Jimmy tears his gazes away, and opts to watch the continuous wisp of blue smoke wafting from cigarette's tip instead."May I have one?" He asks on impulse, commanded by a sudden urge to experience the alien concept of breathing smoke into his lungs. He has never attempted to smoke—the thought of inhaling a foreign substance in such concentrated amounts always repelled him, but after observing Thomas exercise the liberty of it for so long…

Thomas lifts an eyebrow at the request, a silent question in his eyes. He eventually retrieves a half-full packet of cigarettes from his coat, pulls one out with deft fingers. Jimmy accepts the cigarette, along with the lighter, noticing the obvious effort Thomas puts in avoiding physical contact as he passes the items.

"Why are you so careful all the time?" Jimmy blurts out before he can stop himself. _What are you _doing_?_ "Don't mind me, Mr. Barrow. I was merely thinking out loud." He says quickly, fumbles with the lighter until it ignites, the tear-shaped flame hovering in the air.

Jimmy puts one end of the fag between his lips, about to set it alight, but stops short and looks over to Thomas when he hears him chuckle. "Wrong end," Thomas says, pointing at Jimmy's mouth.

Flushing bright red, Jimmy flips it around and lights it impatiently, holding the flame to the material until it catches the blaze.

"Breathe in slowly," Thomas says. "First-timers often make the mistake of inhaling too much and end up hacking their lungs out."

Apparently, Jimmy is one of those first-timers because he's immediately attacked by a series of violent coughs as the hot air burns a savage path down his throat. Tears spring into his eyes, blurs his vision in a translucent film. "You make it look so effortless," he says to Thomas once he regains his breath, blinks away the moisture in his eyes.

Thomas shrugs. "Been at it for far too long," he says. "But I didn't start smoking regularly until O'Brien—until coming to Downton, that is."

Jimmy stares at the glowing stick between his fingers, contemplating. "Do you ever miss her? O'Brien, I mean," he asks, surprised at his own boldness.

There's a long, quiet moment in which Jimmy waits for a response that he isn't sure Thomas will give, while Thomas takes a few puffs, eyes cast towards the dark sky. Just when Jimmy thinks his question will be left unanswered, Thomas says, "I try not to, because of—you know, but I do, Jimmy, and it's pathetic."

"I don't think it is," Jimmy argues. "Well yes, she was a wretched woman who should never have done what she did, but from what others have said, she was once your friend. It's not—it's not pathetic to miss your friends, the people you care about."

It is odd and unexpected, but Jimmy's mind wanders to his fallen comrades back in the war, the brief times of refuge they shared when they weren't out shooting at Germans. He remembers showing them card tricks, wants to laugh out loud in hindsight, because who in the bloody hell played cards when the whole world was on the brink of the end? Yet they enjoyed Jimmy's company, revelled in the momentary respite because they all expected there would not be another; nobody dared to hope because the disappointment would be too much when they found themselves lying in a ditch, a third of their body blown off, and realized this was _it—_

And the most of them were right, because as far as Jimmy is concerned, barely a tenth of his division made it all the way through in one piece, and it's all so—

"Jimmy, are you alright?"

Thomas's soft voice pulls Jimmy back to the present, a pair of hands raising him from perdition. He blinks numbly, realises the cigarette between his fingers have burnt almost half-way. "I'm fine." Shame overcomes him like a tidal wave, quick and sudden, because there is absolutely _no _reason for Jimmy to wallow in self-pity at all. He made it out without a scratch; not everyone can say the same—the ones who_can _still say anything.

Jimmy's eyes dart towards Thomas's gloved hand, his mind recreating the hidden scars underneath from memory. Sometimes, Jimmy wonders about the story behind the wound that he so rarely shows. Thomas has never talked about it, and Jimmy's never asked, probably won't ever ask; war has always been a sensitive subject for anyone, veterans especially. Yet he finds himself saying, "Did you—" Jimmy clamps his mouth shut before the words spew out. _Have you lost your wits, James?_

"Did I what?"

Jimmy stares into Thomas's eyes, trying to lift the veil and see beneath the mask that Thomas has so painstakingly woven.

_Tell me what you're thinking._

But there's nothing he can decipher; he has always been terrible at reading between the lines.

Jimmy turns away then, stubbing out his cigarette, the quiet demise of the flame a paradigm of lost souls.

_-x-_

Thomas isn't sure why—or how it started, but they've fallen into routine now: on nights in which they are both free, they would have a smoke in the late dusk, talking about nothing and everything, two desolate entities gravitating towards one another like two ends of a magnet.

There comes one day when he decides it does not matter why, because he doesn't care; he savours every second of it like it's the last one he will have, clutches onto the memories they create like vines clinging to a window pane. Sometimes, Thomas expects to wake up in his bed, as if this all is a bittersweet fantasy, but each and every time he would realize that—no, this is _not _a dream, and he would smile to himself, pondering just how it all came to be.

It's not just that, either; it may just be Thomas's wishful thinking, but it appears Jimmy has been more open to him lately, ever since the evening he returned to Downton with a puppy in his arms. There have been more physical touches as well: a brush of fingers at the passing of a cigarette, a nudge to the side at the mention of a joke, a pat on the arm at a fleeting comment.

It's been driving him _mad_, though he does his best to conceal it.

"Thomas has adapted rather nicely," Jimmy says in a particular evening. "His wounds have been healing quite well and it seems he's learnt his way around the compounds of Downton."

"Two weeks is more than enough time to adjust, especially for a young pup," Thomas replies. He casts a furtive glance at Jimmy, watches the moonlight play across the length of his eyelashes. "Yet I must ask, why did you bring him back to Downton that day? The more logical thing to do would be to take him to the village hospital."

It's a question that has been pestering at Thomas, one that he hasn't seen fit to ask until now—until they've become better acquainted. Though he isn't sure why he is feeling this way; it doesn't sound like a loaded question no matter how he looks at it.

But it seems like it _is_, because Jimmy doesn't give him an answer immediately. Thomas wavers, about to take back his question when Jimmy says, "Because he reminded me of you."

Thomas raises his eyebrows at the answer. It's not as if it's a great revelation; Jimmy did name it after _him_.

"It was a selfish reason, you see," Jimmy continues. "I saw him as a—a chance to redeem myself. Because what happened to you," he finishes, looks away like he can't stand to face Thomas. The line of his shoulders is stiff, a taut string nearing its breaking point.

It takes a moment for the facts to fall into place; it has been almost six months, after all. Thomas can't quite believe that it's been haunting Jimmy for such a long time. If he didn't feel so guilty about putting Jimmy in such a position, he imagined he would've been—flattered. "We've talked about this," he says carefully. "It's alright, Jimmy. I _am_alive, am I not?"

"No, it is _not _alright," Jimmy says, glares at Thomas with feverish eyes. "Do you want to know what I think? You should've _left me there alone_. It would've been the _logical_ thing to do." The words roll off his tongue in a harsh sneer as he mocks Thomas's earlier words, and Jimmy's eyes widen, a sudden look of repentance passing over them like the harbinger of a storm. "Mr. Barrow—"

"Don't apologize," Thomas says, cutting him off. _I don't think I can bear it. _"You're right, of course—but I would've done it ten times over—"

"But why?"

_"You know why,"_ Thomas snaps, anger spiking at Jimmy's irrational, childish behaviour. _Do we have to do this again? _"Don't keep pretending as if you don't. It's not going to change." This is too much for him, to relive the moments of his life that are better left buried. Longing for an escape, Thomas turns away and starts to head back—

Jimmy's fingers close around his wrist, and he tries to yank it back but it seems Jimmy has no intention to release him until he gets what he bloody wants—whatever it is. Jimmy presses a hand to Thomas's chest, pushing him against the wall. Thomas lets out a small gasp as his head bangs against the unyielding bricks, his heart pounding like a sledgehammer, blocking out the noises around him. The ground is spiraling beneath his feet and Thomas squeezes his eyes shut, trying to make sense of it all, his wrists pinned to the wall by Jimmy's iron grip.

"Listen to me," Jimmy whispers, his chest rising and falling with each rapid breath, his pupils swallowing the ocean blue of irises. His fingers curl tighter around Thomas's arms. "I don't know what's happening to me, Thomas, but what I _do _know is that I want to fix things between us."

Thomas blinks, straining to hear Jimmy's words over the thundering of his heart. "What do you mean? Nothing is broken—"

Jimmy silences him, pressing his mouth against Thomas's. It's a clumsy, sloppy kiss, but it sends Thomas's mind keeling over the edge, tumbling south into the welcoming arms of oblivion. The heat of Jimmy's lips sears red hot like sweltering iron, and when he finally pulls away after what seems like eternity, Thomas finds himself aching for more.

"This is what I meant," Jimmy says after a heartbeat, his eyelids falling shut as he leans his forehead against Thomas's, the grasp on his wrists loosening as Jimmy's hands slide down his sides and encompass his lower back.

The passing air between them is crude and intimate as they share their breaths, tinged with a hint of surrealism that Thomas no longer knows if it's all just in his head, a cruel fantasy designed to rip his heart out and feed it into a grinder. "I don't understand," Thomas says without thinking. Bloody hell, he can't even _think _anymore. Words keep tumbling out without his permission. "I thought you said—ah, I can't remember what it was…"

Jimmy laughs, breathless, a rush of air fanning across Thomas's skin like a steady beat of wings. "Never mind what I said, Thomas," he murmurs. "God, what have I been _doing _all this time until now?"

Thomas inhales, taking in the mixture of the scent of Jimmy's pomade and the musky tinge of sweat; it's a feat that he so often indulges in secret, but now he's actually doing it without trying to hide. It's a strange world.

"Missing out, that's what," Thomas says, chuckles a little. His head is still spinning at a hundred kilometres an hour. "Though I still think this is a dream."

Jimmy leans in and gives him a soft kiss on the forehead. "Don't be stupid. This is real," he says, his quiet voice a stronger reassurance than Thomas's mind can ever be. "I'm just sorry it took me so long."


End file.
